


Finding You

by stripyjumpers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Cabins, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 08:37:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17895152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stripyjumpers/pseuds/stripyjumpers
Summary: Sherlock and John go off on an impromptu holiday to a snowy cabin in the woods, but it’s not all crackling fires and cozy nights, and things quickly go from tranquil to terrifying.





	Finding You

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this story a few years ago and it had a slightly different plot that I wasn’t super happy with, so I decided to go back and change things up. Not sure how well it’s going to read but I hope you’ll enjoy nonetheless!

The black jeep pulled slowly up to the small, humble cabin hidden away in the snowy woods. Sherlock parked the car on the gravel driveway and turned to John.

“You’re still angry with me,” he said.

“Nope.” John crossed his arms over his chest fixed his gaze firmly ahead.

“John, as I said, my brother had already arranged everything for this little ‘holiday’ of ours and I assumed that you would be pleased.”

“Oh, I am. Pleased as punch, really.”

“John.”

“Why would Mycroft do something like this out of the blue, Sherlock? Is this secretly for a case? Am I going to find some criminal playing hide and seek in the woods?”

“You’re being irrational.”

“ _I’m_ being irrational? You took a holiday from your brother, who you never accept any help from, for seemingly no apparent reason, and you want me to assume there’s no ulterior motive going on here?”

Sherlock let out a long winded sigh. “I’ll get the bags.”

* * *

John opened the creaky wooden door of the cabin and set down his lone suitcase on the hardwood floors, looking at Sherlock who was already inside and busy preparing logs in the fireplace.

The cabin was small, with a cozy sitting room, a tiny kitchen area, two bedrooms, and a bathroom. John sighed, unzipped his jacket and hung it up on the hook behind the door, then plopped himself down onto the sofa in front of the fire.

“I am still angry, in case you’re wondering,” John muttered with his eyes already closed and an arm draped over his head.

Sherlock poked at the forming fire a bit. “Oh, please, you’re overjoyed to be here. If I had to see you aggressively drink tea one more time I’d have sent you on holiday myself.”

“How do I aggressively drink tea?”

“You do that thing with your lips.” Sherlock tried to imitate the gesture with his own mouth but only ended up looking slightly pouty.

John dragged his hands over his face and sighed. “Fine, maybe I do like that we’re getting away for a bit, but do you think you could’ve found a different way of letting me know the plan?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t see what you mean.”

“Sherlock, I’d just walked in the door, you tossed a full suitcase at me and manhandled me into the car!”

“You know me, John. I don’t do small talk.”

“Right, because it would’ve been so difficult to say ‘oh, John, by the way, we’re going on holiday for three days in the woods’? All thanks to Mycroft’s kind heart.”

Sherlock turned away from John and prodded the fire a bit more. He was silent for a moment before speaking rather softly.

“It’s for me, John,” he said.

“What?” John looked up blearily.

“Me, this,” he motioned all around the cabin, “this holiday, for me.”

“How do you mean?”

“Mycroft, he sends me away when he thinks I’m…overworked. Or for fear I might return to…old habits.”

“Your brother books you a trip when he thinks you’re about to bloody relapse?”

“When he thinks I need to relax, yes.”

“Christ, he really does worry about you.”

“Like a mother hen, John. Like a mother hen.” Sherlock closed his eyes and put his fingers in a prayer position under his lips.

John watched Sherlock as he slowly slipped from reality and sank into the caverns of his mind. The fire was warm and cast a soft orange glow around the room. John joined Sherlock in closing his eyes and letting his mind wander for a bit. He was somewhat loath to admit that he was actually beginning to relax. Their previous week had been full to the brim with clients, experiments, and one too many late nights filling out paperwork at the Yard. Perhaps it would be nice to take a breather for a while, after all.

* * *

Almost an hour had passed since John had closed his eyes on the sofa, managing to nod off for most of that time. He cracked open an eye and squinted at the bright orange light from the fire, seeing Sherlock still sitting in much the same position as before. The sun had gone down in that time and it was only after seeing the darkness outside that John realized that they hadn’t eaten a proper supper.

“Sherlock?” John called. “M’starving, and I’m guessing there’s no takeaway for miles. Any ideas?”

 John waited for a reply, nodded sharply to himself when he didn’t get one, and made his way to the kitchenette.

There wasn’t much in the cupboards save for a few bags of crisps and some biscuits. The refrigerator held more promise, however, and John managed to put together sandwiches for the two of them. He cut his sandwich in half and Sherlock’s into fours, because after living with him for so long, he realized that Sherlock was much more likely to eat something if it was small and could fit in his hand.

Smirking to himself, John brought the plates over to the fire, setting Sherlock’s down right by his knee before tucking into his dinner.

“You’re gonna scorch your socks if you sit like that any longer,” John said.

“Hm?” Sherlock turned his head, as if noticing John for the first time.

“Never mind. Just eat something, will you?”

“Can’t. Busy.”

“Busy?”

“Thinking, yes.”

“Well, sorry to interrupt,” John said.

John pulled out his phone from his pocket, intent on checking his blog for any comments, only to be stopped by the lack of internet connection.

“There’s no Wi-Fi up here, is there?”

“Brilliant deduction, John.”

 “Great. So no internet connection, no television, and you’re ‘busy,’ so—“

“Check your suitcase.”

“Why? What’s in my—“

“Quiet, I need to think now,” Sherlock said, waving John off.

John just shook his head lightly, got up to retrieve the bag that Sherlock had packed for him, and headed into one of the bedrooms.

The room was small, consisting of a bedside table, a lamp, a wardrobe, and a bed that was covered in an intricately patterned quilt. John plopped his suitcase onto the bed and opened it up. He found three days’ worth of clothes, a few toiletries, and surprisingly, his favorite books. John smiled to himself, thinking that he’d never even told Sherlock which were his favorites, of course he just knew. 

He settled himself in the middle of the bed and opened up a novel, and read until he fell asleep.

The next morning, John found Sherlock sitting at the table in the breakfast nook, engrossed in a botany encyclopedia and completely oblivious to the world around him. He wore his red and green tartan dressing gown and his hair was slightly tousled. John resisted the strange urge to brush the stray hair away from his face and instead set a granola bar down in front of Sherlock.

By midmorning, John was already halfway done with a book, but would have been three quarters of the way done if he hadn’t kept looking up from the sofa at Sherlock, who was busy sorting through various leaves on the kitchen table.

John sighed and attempted to get back to his reading, but was admittedly beginning to feel somewhat restless. He sat up, wiped the tired look from his eyes, and went to see what Sherlock was up to.

“Those leaves proving interesting, then?” he asked.

“Mm,” Sherlock grunted, peering into a microscope.

“Where the hell did you get a microscope?” John asked.

“Mycroft’s people left it here. He’s knows me so well,” Sherlock drawled sarcastically.

“Right. So, I was thinking of going for a walk, if you wanted to join me. Maybe you could collect some more samples of…whatever that is.”

Sherlock continued to stare into the lenses of the microscope.

“Sherlock? You listening?”

When John received no further response, he pursed his lips and headed back to his room.

The next time John emerged from the room, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. All of his books and plants were still sprawled across the table, but the man himself appeared to be missing. John checked his phone for a signal, but frowned when he didn’t find one.

He settled down onto the sofa, figuring that Sherlock was most likely gallivanting off to who knows where, doing who knows what type of research. John was beginning to feel more impatient than relaxed, and almost wished he were back in London, sprinting across rooftops and running down dark alleyways. At least there he had something to do, and someone who needed him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the door bursting open and Sherlock blundering in, large white snowflakes sprinkled on his hair and coat.

“Still snowing, then?” John asked.

Sherlock gave him the ‘obviously’ glare and sauntered off to his bedroom.

* * *

It was a few hours later, and John had finally finished his book, which he had almost been dreading seeing as he had no idea what to do to entertain himself afterward.

He closed the book and set is aside before deciding to get up and attempt to communicate with Sherlock again, if only to give himself something to do.

Sherlock was back at the kitchen table, scribbling frantically in a notebook and not acknowledging John in the slightest, just as he’d been doing the entire trip.

“Having fun?” John asked.

“What? Oh, yes. Doing menial research always clears my head.”

“That’s good, yeah. Glad you’re enjoying yourself.” John steeled himself, gripping the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Sherlock looked up from his notes.

“You’re angry with me again.”

“What gave it away?”

“What could I have possibly done this time? I’ve stayed out of your hair all afternoon.”

“Exactly, Sherlock. But you haven’t stayed out of my hair for my sake; you’re completely ignoring me. What’s going on with you?”

“There’s nothing ‘going on.’”

“Then why won’t you talk to me?”

“I told you, I’m busy.”

“Why the hell did you bring me along, then?”

“As I said before, I assumed that you needed the break. And if I’d asked you beforehand, you would have refused to come, then would have continued to overwork yourself and would have been incredibly irritable when I got back.” 

“You brought me here so I wouldn’t be irritable when you got back.”

“Yes.”

“How’s that working out?”

“Oh, don’t be like that; we’re only here for one more day.”

“You know what? We’re out of firewood. I’m gonna go get some more. I’ll stay out of your hair, yeah?” John grabbed his coat off the hook and stormed out the door.

John didn’t even bother actually looking for firewood as he trudged through the trees, barely paying attention to where he was going and muttering to himself along the way.

He’d angrily scowled his way through the forest for a good half an hour when the trees started to become denser, the terrain a little rougher. But he wasn’t acknowledging the scenery, he was too busy thinking of all the things he could have been doing back at home. He could have gone to the surgery, made some much needed money. He could have tidied up the flat, or did the shopping, or wrote up the last case on his blog. But instead he was dragged out to a holiday with his best mate who somehow forgot he existed.

 _I get overlooked enough at home,_ he thought. _He leaves me at crimes scenes, doesn’t even realize when I’ve gone out, forgets I’m there half the time, and now that it’s just the bloody two of us he still can’t get his head out of his arse long enough to hold a damn conversation._

John was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice how eerily close he’d been standing to the edge of a deep ravine, and his next step forward sent him slipping on the snow-covered ground and tumbling down the jagged, rock-riddled drop.

John grunted in pain as he slid and fumbled, and could have sworn he blacked out for a split second when a searing spike of pain shot through his leg. By the time he reached the bottom, all he could register was cold and pain.

John gingerly touched a hand to the side of his head, and winced when he realized that it was blood and not melted snow that was making his hair wet. His ribs felt bruised as opposed to broken, so he took that as a good sign, but any hope of standing up was lost when he tried to move his left leg.

“Shit,” he cursed. His ankle was definitely broken, and along with the bruised ribs and slippery, snow-covered ground, there was no way he’d be able to get himself back up the steep ravine.

He grimaced and reached carefully into the pocket of his jeans, only to pull out a very broken mobile.

“Oh, for the love of…” John trailed off as he carelessly tossed the useless phone aside. He reasoned that even if it hadn’t broken, there wasn’t a chance in hell he would have gotten a signal anyway.

He lay very still for a short while, closing his eyes and breathing in shuddering breaths through his nose. If Sherlock had barely registered John’s presence when he was in the cabin, how was he ever going to notice that he was no longer there?

John worried that by the time Sherlock realized something was wrong it’d be too late. He worried about hypothermia. He worried about the pain in his leg. He worried about the cut on his head. He worried until he lost consciousness completely.

* * *

Back at the cabin, Sherlock was busy finishing up his studies at the table.

“John, could you hand me that beaker?” he asked, holding out his hand expectantly.

When there was no response or beaker being placed in his hand, Sherlock looked up to find the room empty. It was only then that he remembered that John had left to get firewood, but surely that couldn’t have been too long ago.

Looking out the window, Sherlock could see that the sun was beginning to go down, but hadn’t it been light out when John had left? Perhaps John had used the excuse of looking for firewood to take a walk and blow off some steam, Sherlock thought. John would likely be back soon, then.

Another fifteen minutes had passed with no sign of John, and Sherlock had to admit that he was beginning to get slightly concerned. The chill in the cabin had also begun to spread at the lack of fire in the fireplace, and Sherlock figured he may as well go and get some firewood himself, and look for John while he’s at it.

Sherlock donned his coat and scarf and stepped outside into the chilled winter evening. The sun was still somewhere in the hazy grey sky, casting a dark purple and bluish glow on everything. The snow crunched under Sherlock’s feet as he followed John’s angry footsteps.

Sherlock couldn’t deny the growing worry that crept up on him after following the footprints for almost thirty minutes and not seeing nor hearing any sign of John.

“John!” He called out into the almost-darkness.

“John!” He tried again.

He squinted, continuing to follow the steps until they lead him to the top of a very unfriendly looking hill.

“Oh, god…” Sherlock breathed as he stepped closer and saw the distinct evidence of John losing his footing. He took a tentative step to the edge, and let out a short gasp as he saw John lying stock still at the bottom of the ravine.

“John!” he called as he began to ease himself down.

He slowly but surely made his way down, and was by John’s side in a flurry. He carefully turned him over, noting the cut near his temple and the way he was holding his midsection.

Sherlock checked his phone for signal, but there was none. Mycroft had purposefully chosen such a remote location so that Sherlock wouldn’t be distracted by his phone.

Sherlock silently cursed his brother and placed one arm underneath John’s neck, and the other underneath his knees. He lifted him as carefully as he could, cradling him close as he looked for an alternative way back up.

When they finally made their way back to the cabin, Sherlock set John down on the sofa slowly and covered him with a quilt to keep him warm. He spent the next few minutes sprinting all around the house trying to get a signal, when finally he was able to call for help.

Due to the snow and the cabin’s remote location, the ambulance wouldn’t arrive for a half an hour to an hour, and all Sherlock could really do was stay by John’s side and make sure that he was okay.

Kneeling down next to the sofa, Sherlock reached out and carefully ran his fingers through John’s muddied hair, feeling as if it was the first time that he’d truly looked at John’s face since they’d arrived. He hated the scrapes and dried blood that ran down John’s cheek, hated the bruise that was beginning to form under his eye, hated how John looked pained even when unconscious, but mostly, he hated himself for causing all of this in the first place.

* * *

When John opened his eyes, he felt heavy, cloudy, and more than a little confused. He looked at the white walls surrounding him, the stiff blanket tucked around him, the heart monitor beeping steadily to his right. Hospital, then.

John turned his head to look at the chair next to his bed. Hanging over the back of it was Sherlock’s coat, Sherlock’s phone charger was plugged in to the wall, and there were two empty coffee cups sat on the counter. Sherlock must have been sitting with him all night.

John laid his head back on the pillow and sighed, his ribs aching slightly with the action. There were a myriad of questions swirling around in his head, but before he could gather the mental strength to try to remember what had happened, the door to his room swung open and Sherlock strode in, stopping short when he saw John.

“Ah. You’re awake, then,” he said.

“’Parrently,” John murmured, his voice rough.

“How are you feeling?”

“Could be better.”

“Obviously.”

John gave him a look.

“The doctors said that you would be fine,” Sherlock went on. “A few scrapes, some bruised ribs, broken ankle. Nothing to worry about.”

“Right.” John swallowed thickly. “What a lovely, relaxing holiday, hm?”

Sherlock looked sheepishly down at the floor.

John shook his head. “No, look, this is my fault anyway, I—“

“It wasn’t your fault.” Sherlock interrupted.

“I was a bloody klutz, Sherlock. I should’ve been paying more attention, but I was angry.”

“You seem to be angry with me a lot as of late.”

“Yeah, well, that seems to be just about the only time you pay attention to—look, never mind. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, John.”

John looked down and worried the blanket between his fingers. “No, it’s not, is it? Do you even know why I was so angry with you earlier?”

“I was, as you put it, ‘completely ignoring you.’”

“It wasn’t just that, Sherlock. It’s that even out here, in the middle of nowhere, with no computers or phones or cases, you still barely noticed me.”

“I always notice you,” Sherlock corrected quickly.

“But you don’t acknowledge me. I mean, you do, when you need me, but you’re so far off in your own head sometimes, it’s like I can’t even reach you. And when I was lying there, at the bottom of that hill, I thought—“

“You thought I’d forget about you. You thought I would forget you’d gone out, or remember too late.”

John nodded sullenly. He looked down at the floor, then back up at Sherlock who was staring unfocused at the side of John’s bed. “But you found me.”

“I’ll always find you.” Sherlock said, staring right into John’s eyes. “I’ll always find you, John, because you’re always there. Over my shoulder, at my side, right behind me. That’s why I don’t notice when you leave, because I think you’re still there.”

“Then why push me away like that?”

Sherlock worried his bottom lip for a moment before slowly moving to sit down in the chair next to John. “In this case, I feared that if I got too close, I would be forced to…confront certain things.”

“What sort of things?”

“Feelings,” he spat out, as if it pained him to say it.

“Feelings about what?”

“You.”

“I don’t follow.”

Sherlock huffed. “For god’s sake, John. A small cabin in the woods, a roaring fire, snow falling outside, it’s the making of one of those terrible romance novels you read.”

“They’re not that terrible,” John mumbled.

“They most certainly are, and you’re missing the point.”

“Right. So you…ignored me because you…have feelings for me.”

“Yes.”

“Romantic feelings.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Oi!”

“It’s a horrendous distraction, you understand.”

John smiled and shook his head fondly. “Well, my sincere apologies.”

“Apology accepted.”

“Aren’t you meant to be the one apologizing?”

“I’ve already done that.”

“Well, in case you haven’t already deduced it, I do too, you know. Have feelings. For you.”

“Ah.”

“Unfortunately,” he said, smiling.

“Well, that’s…good. Yes.”

John laughed under his breath. “Sherlock, come here.” He motioned for Sherlock to come closer.

“Why?”

“Just…come here.”

Furrowing his brow in confusion, Sherlock scooted his chair closer to John’s bed, and before he could ask what John’s intentions were, John reached out and took his hand in his.

“Look,” John said, “I know there’s more we should talk about, but whatever pain meds they’ve got me on must be making me drowsy because I’m almost definitely about to fall asleep again. But just…stay here with me, please? After feeling like you weren’t even there the past few days I just…want to know you’re here.”

Sherlock smiled and squeezed John’s hand reassuringly.

“I’m here, John. I’m here.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and as always, comments are very much appreciated! ^^


End file.
